Alcoholic
by chronically radioactive
Summary: Ellen calls Butch an alcoholic, emotions ensue. Prompt from tumblr. M for cursing and underage drinking.


_a/n: heyyy all. working on updating everything else, but in the meantime, here's a quick Butch-centered fic. lots of feels, because it's a prompt from a tumblr!anon._

* * *

Things had gone to shit – and gone to shit quickly – after the Doc and his kid escaped. While Butch is jealous of their new freedom, he also finds himself _hating_ them for bringing down such a harsh new lifestyle for the citizens of Vault 101.

It's hard dealing with such a burning animosity and a sense of admiration at the same time, especially for him, but it's definitely one of his least important worries. Shit, now they have to deal with the Overseer and his crazy, brainwashed guards, _and_ the "civil war" that has torn the Vault in two.

And, shit, he's got to deal with his mother.

He has to cope with the fact that she, of all goddamn people, has sided with the Overseer.

Butch really can't blame her, though. After James and his son-of-a-bitch kid packed up their shit and ran, the Overseer had his loyal followers raid the diner and the clinic. As a result, all of the booze, food, drugs, and necessities ended up in the Overseer's hands.

And Butch has to admit – the prospect of booze was pretty tantalizing at first.

But shit, he couldn't leave his friends. He can be an asshole and he knows it, but he's not about to leave his _friends_ behind in the dust, damn. He'd have to be pretty goddamn heartless to do that.

He doesn't want to leave his friends behind, no, doesn't want to leave them behind like the Doc and his kid left the entire Vault behind. Things…things weren't good, and he misses the cushy, comfortable lifestyle he'd used to have – the one where he could get wasted as much as he wanted, could grope Suzie Mack as much as he wanted, and could fight to his fucking heart's content.

Yeah, Butch has gotten in his share of fights and scuffles, he'd seen his fair share of blood, had a few broken bones, nosebleeds, and bruises, but _nothing_ had prepared him for the type of brutality the Overseer now ruled with.

He wasn't really fond of Amata, even if she had great tits, but if he did, he would apologize for her dad's behavior with something like, "Sorry your father's an asshole," or maybe even"Don't fucking grow up like him or I'll knock you around even if you _are_ a broad."

Probably something a little more sympathetic, but whatever.

Butch could understand why she's become such a venomous, controlling bitch lately, and he doesn't like it. Sure, the group needs someone to lead it, but he's more than a little worried that she'll go mad with power like her dad, too.

Shit, not that he cared who got control of the Vault. As long as he got _out_ of the shithole, as long as he got booze at the end of the day, he'd be absolutely fucking peachy.

So, yeah. He's a little pissed at the way Amata orders him to lead a little "recon" group out to swipe some medical supplies, but he does it anyway, because he _knows_ what's at stake, even if his _awesome_ aloofness makes them think otherwise.

Butch slips down a corridor, wary of the guards that patrol at this time of night. Like a motherfucking Tunnel Snake, he slithers into the Overseer's storeroom.

On a rusty shelf, propped up against the chipping concrete walls, sits a metal box labeled "Med. Supplies". He tips open the lid, slides a few stimpaks in his backpack along with a medical brace, some dirty looking plastic tubbing, and a few bottles of vodka.

He's not really sure why the vodka's there, probably for disinfecting, but he doesn't complain. _Those_ bottles he slips into a separate pocket, because hell if he's going to let good booze go to waste.

Butch is retreating, sneaking past the living quarters when he spots his mom, swaying down the hallway on unsteady feet. He hasn't _spoken_ with her in at least two weeks, and feels a sudden sting of homesickness. Trying not to call out in a pathetically childish, needy tone, he slips after her.

A few paces outside their old home, he grabs her arm, and then shakes his head as quickly as he can to stop her from shouting.

"Butchie!" she whispers, and he feels strangely at ease, happily content, for the first time in a _long_ fucking while. Instead of saying anything, Butch allows himself to be dragged into the small living room and pulled into a tight hug.

She may be a bad person, she may be shallow and confused and hurt and _angry _ at all the wrong people, but she's still his ma. Butch grips her in the fierce hug for a long time, burying his face in her shoulder and trying not to cry.

He's not exactly sure _why_ tears are springing to the corners of his eyes, but fuck it, because it's just the clean, comforting, familiar smell of her hair and probably the fact that he hasn't been hugged by his own mother since he was five.

"Goddammit, never sneak up on me like that again," she says, adding that cold, abrasive tone that's he's become accustomed to.

"Fuck, sorry ma." he replies, gets a whack over the ear for cursing, and lets go to step back, awkward and ashamed. He wonders if she's going to call the Overseer, have him locked up in the brig, but then naively pushes the thought from his head.

He realizes, for the first time, as he steps away, the tremors. "You been 'kay?" he asks, doing nothing to mask the worry in his tone.

She nods, and he's instantly relieved, if not a bit skeptical. "Damn restrictions on the booze around here; going through withdrawal or something."

Butch perks up. He's not exactly happy that his ma is an alcoholic, and shit if it's caused a lot of trouble before, but…

"Sit down ma," he says, lets his backpack thump down on their coffee table while she complies.

"You kids…you've been okay, right?"

Butch gets a little quiet, stops pulling the vodka out of his pack. They've been okay, have been able to manage on their own for quite awhile, but…

"Yeah, we've done pretty damn good," he says, sets down the bottles with a thunk on the table, and sits down in the armchair opposite his mom. "We, uh," he coughs, trying to keep any hint of heavy emotion from his voice, "We…Paul…we lost Paul last week."

She looks astounded, but the prospect of vodka has wiped away a lot of the interest in discussion. Butch frowns.

"That's too bad," is all she says, and Butch kinda wants to slap her across the face. Her jumpsuit is void of tears or grime, she looks like she's been wasted for quite some time…how hard can it fucking be for her?

"Ma, I said _Paul died."_ Butch says again, emphasizing the last phrase and hoping she doesn't miss the damn point.

"Mm. He was a good kid."

Buch gives up then, realizes from experience that it's no use, and stands to get a few dirty glasses from the counter.

After a few glasses, Butch notices she gets that distant, unnervingly cold aura around her. He knows she's too far gone right now to even _care_ what he has to say, but there's still something comforting about her presence.

It's not like she's been a _terrible_ mother, and yeah, he would've liked it if she would have been at his tenth birthday and not losing her lunch and six glasses of whiskey that one time, but she's never been abusive. Butch knows she makes an effort, or at least _tried_ to, and shit, she's done a lot better job than his coward asshole of a father.

"Ma. _Ma. MA." _ Butch has to try three times to get her attention. When she finally looks up, he squirms uncomfortably under the glazed, annoyed flare in her eyes. It's probably not the best time to ask, but who the fuck knows if he'll be breathing tomorrow to talk with her again.

"What do you think of…y'know, leavin'?"

She blinks.

"Leaving? What, leaving the Vault?"

Butch nods, fidgets uncomfortably with the zipper of his (badass) jacket before nodding again and worriedly meeting her gaze. His heart drops when she lets out a curt laugh.

"What, gonna get up and leave like your goddamn good-for-nothing dad?" she demands, and it's so sudden and _bitter_ of an exclamation that he jumps a little. "Gonna be like your fucking dad?" she repeats, takes a long sip from the bottle of vodka, and coughs.

Blood immediately begins rushing to his face in an angry stream, and he tries his best to glare at her. He's heard this before, but there's a new malice behind her tone that he…he just doesn't get. The fact that he can't understand it adds to his embarrassed anger.

"I'm fuckin' like _him._" He snaps, wondering for just a moment if she's going to threaten him to "Wash your goddamn mouth out with soap".

"Come on, Butchie," she slurs, raises her glass in a fucking morbid toast to him, and he can't believe they're having a fight over this now, when his world is going to hell and the Vault is split down the middle and his fucking best friend is dead and he just needs…he doesn't even know. Comfort? A hug?

"You're exactly like him, godammit. Got the same hair, and the same cold feet, and the same, the same…" she searches for a word, stares at the half-empty glass of vodka clenched in her son's hand, and lets out a short, curt laugh again.

"And damn, you're an alcoholic too," she says, "just like your good ol' folks, right?"

This gets to him. He's not sure why, but it goes straight to his bones, wraps them right up in a freezing, harsh way that gives him Goosebumps. His temper goes _flying, _and if he was a more poetic, more creative person, he'd compare the sensation to jumping from a cliff made of _fucking sharp _glass and diving into _anger-water_. With deadly sharks. That he wants to punch.

"You shut up! Don't fucking say that," he yells, and he can sense the cameras in the hallway turn towards the room. They're programmed to detect excessive feelings, to detect potential threats of violence. He doesn't care.

Butch throws his glass to the floor, stands up, and towers over his ma. She's just grinning, grinning like fucking Officer Mack was grinning when Paul fell to the floor in a spray of bullets and _blood. _Blood that ended up getting on Butch's face, staining his tan skin for _days. _

He didn't want to be like his dad, didn't wanna be like his mom at _all,_ dammit. He looks down at the woman, fists clenched, and just stares.

She's accomplished nothing but set the record for "largest collection of beer bottles". Shit, he doesn't want to be like her, and he sure as hell doesn't want to be compared to his _worthless_ coward of a father.

"Don't _say_ that," he repeats, but she cuts him off with another cruelly short laugh.

"Butchie you know it's the truth, I ain't gonna lie to you." She finishes her tirade by taking another drink and retreating to her bedroom.

Butch lets her go, but he doesn't leave right away. In fact, he sits down on the armchair again, stares at the cold metal floor, crunches the broken glass under his boots.

And then he feels like crying, so he fucking does. It's more than a little angry, and he feels gross, the way his nose gets all stuffy and full of snot, and the stupid tears that race down his cheeks. He just wants to _goddamn cry_, and fuck anyone who says he's a wimp for doing it.

Later, he convinces himself there's no real reason, _forces_ himself to believe there's no pain or bitterness behind the tears.

He didn't really of anything when it happened, fuck no.

He wasn't not thinking of the innocence lost during the Overseer's raids, wasn't thinking about Paul dying, wasn't worried about the lack of food and supplies for the rebels, wasn't wishing he was out of the shithole – and he _certainly_ wasn't crying because he wanted his mother to come back and hug him and console him and tell him it wasn't true - that she hadn't meant all those things she said.


End file.
